Page 65 of Twins for the Enemy

But if it helps me find her?

It would be worth it.

I need to be certain that she’s safe.

“I just got a notification from Peter,” Sophie says. “A woman is here trying to drop off your credit card. She’s claiming she found it, but he’s detained her. Do you want him to call the police?”

I guess I won’t have to use Bandit after all.

“Tell him to bring her up,” I say. “She’s not a thief, but don’t let her leave.”

“Got it.” Sophie types in her phone, heading out of the office and to her desk without looking up.

I look around my office. It’s too late to make it look less cold and uninviting. It is what it is.

As I wait, I can already imagine all of the strategies Farah could come up with to avoid Peter bringing her up to me. Dodging under his arms to run for the door. Stomping on his black Oxfords. Trying to convince him that someone more dangerous is trying to break into the building.

She’s a gust of wind that I’m trying to capture in my hands. I’m just as irrational as any other storm chaser.

Peter’s telltale knock raps against the door.

“It’s open,” I answer, standing up.

The door opens slowly. Half of Peter appears first, indicating for his apparent thief to step inside with a stiff arm.

Farah steps inside, her lips pressed together tightly and her shoulders hunched. She still looks like the morning light when it filters through the trees. It’s more than the honey-blonde hair and the green eyes. It’s a softness that’s all-consuming. A presence can be gentle as it touches you—and blind you if you take it for granted.

“Hey,” I say.

She nods back at me. “Hey.”

Peter closes the door. Silence rises around us like smoke.

“You don’t need to leave,” I start.

“I’m just here to drop off your card. I’ll pay you back for the cab rides when I can.” She glances around the office. She’s unimpressed by the leather armchairs and the bookshelf filled with old leather-bound books. The view of the city catches her interest for two or three seconds, but when she looks back at me, the view may as well have been a field of deadcows.

“Farah—”

“Here,” she says, stepping forward and holding out the card. I don’t reach for it.

“I meant you don’t need to leave the city,” I say.

“I’m not staying with you. And the police are still looking for me.”

“They’re not,” I tell her. “Neal turned himself in.”

She stops. Her eyes search my eyes as anxiety tightens her face. “What? Why?”

I step closer to her. “Because he needed to take responsibility for his actions.”

Her eyes narrow.

“What did you do?” she demands. “Did you threaten him again?”

“No. He opened his eyes and realized what you deserve.”

She moves closer to me, still dissecting me as she approaches.

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